


The Case of the Disappearing Authors

by spocklogic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 19th Century, Case Fic, Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spocklogic/pseuds/spocklogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short excerpt from a work in progress.</p><p>What seems to be a single missing person case turns out to be a string of several, and they all have one thing in common: the art of writing.</p><p>The case involves a crazed writer/serial killer who wishes he were a better writer, blood, ink, poison, and a bit of a tragic love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Disappearing Authors

I had prepared our supper that night, in manner of celebrating our most recent solved case, to do with a very important diamond and very influential person of royalty. I bought two fine steaks from the butcher that afternoon, and spent the evening in preparing our meal and otherwise writing up the notes for the case which we were celebrating. I rather enjoyed cooking, and didn't often have the chance to do so.

"Why can't we go to The Royale? I much prefer the work of an actual chef when I decide to eat," Sherlock complained, as he flipped down the top of his newspaper to see me from his armchair in the sitting room. He was still dressed in his morning robe, and sat with his bare feet crossed on the coffee table. I'm certain he hadn't left the flat all day.

"We went there two nights ago, Sherlock. You'll like my steak, I promise."

"Doubt it's as good as The Royale." He flipped his newspaper back up so he was out of my view.

Supper was finally served, and Sherlock slumped over to sit in his seat. He looked wistfully at his plate for several minutes before picking his fork and knife up.

"You know, it's rather insulting when you glare at my meal in that fashion."

"You know, your meal is rather insulting," he retorted in a mocking tone. I had gotten used to his complaints and blatant insults, however, and brushed it off. He finally took his knife to the meat, but not without an audible sigh. After he finally took a bite and swallowed with a discontent look on his face, the doorbell rang.

"Single ring," I noted.

"Maximum pressure just under the half-second."

"Client!" we exclaimed simultaneously.

"Although, surely, he must realise that we are suppering," contemplated I.

Sherlock jumped from his seat to the door as quickly as I had ever seen him, and I glanced at his full plate that I had spent a considerable deal of time on that evening.

"Sherlock Holmes, correct?" asked the man at the door. He peered in to see me sitting at the table, and exclaimed, "Oh heavens, I'm so sorry to disturb you during your supper–"

"Oh, do not fret; it's rather a blessing that you've come to take me away from that dreadful dead cow on the table," he said, shooting me a dirty look.

The man looked a bit startled at the statement, but shook his head after the moment of confusion and spoke. "My name is Dr. Charles Aspell, and I need your help. I've heard you can solve any case, or find any person, no matter how puzzling or elusive."

"Indeed, what they say is true. Start from the beginning, if you will," said Sherlock, with a gesture for the man to sit. "And don't mind my friend, Dr. John Watson. You may speak freely in front of him, for he assists me often on our cases."

He was a short and round man, well dressed from head to toe, and carried an expensive cane with an intricately decorated handle, which now leaned against his chair. His hair was nearly white from age, and his blue eyes were sunken into his face. Despite the wrinkles on his face from years of laughter and smiles, he looked extremely broken. He also wrung his hands as he initially contemplated what to say.

"It's my daughter, Charlotte Aspell, sir. She's gone missing. See, I often travel for my work, and I just came back from a long business trip in Edinburgh to seek out potential clients and set up another–"

"Alright, I'd like to hear just the important facts, if you don't mind. How long were you there, and when did you return?"

"Twelve days, and I returned three nights ago, on the evening of the fourteenth. Upon my return, I found my Charlotte nowhere to be seen. I didn't think much of it at first, since she is often out on the town. I had hoped she would see me upon my arrival, but it wasn't the first time. But the next morning, she still did not come home, and then today, I decided to consult you."

"Tell me about her. Is she engaged? What are her interests? Details are vital to the solving of this case."

"She isn't engaged, but she has been seeing this young man a fair bit. Edward Greene, his name was. Not a very industrial bloke. A writer, much like herself." As he emphasized the word _writer_ , his nose crinkled with disdain. Clearly, he did not have an appreciation for the fine arts. "I had told her to watch out for him, but she refused to listen to me. Despite my disapproval of their love, she and I got along well. What's strange is that she didn't even leave a note or anything for me, so I know there's some sinister force involved in her disappearance."

"Have you considered the fact that she may have eloped with his Edward Greene fellow?"

"No. That is certainly not what happened. And this I know, because I found her pearl necklace still in her bedroom. She would never under any circumstance leave that behind. It was her grandmother's necklace, and was passed down to her when my wife died ten years ago. It's my darling's most precious possession, and I know she would never run off and marry without bringing it with her."

Sherlock sat silent for nearly a minute, with his fingertips together under his chin. Dr. Aspell looked over towards me with an anxious and impatient look, when Sherlock finally spoke up. "You said she was a writer?"

"Yes, indeed. She spent most of her nights up in her chamber with her journals. She insisted that she would rather spend her time there than being a housewife. How improper..." he said, and his speech trailed off, before he stopped himself, closed his eyelids, and took a deep breath in, his eyes filling with remorse and sorrow.

Sherlock suddenly jumped to the floor, successfully breaking the silence once more. "I'm sorry, Dr. Aspell, but this is certainly not the most interesting case I've had this week. I have far more pressing cases than a simple missing girl." It was not unusual of him to deny cases, but I did find it strange that he asked questions and listening intently to the man's story entirely. He was lying about having other cases; besides the one we were intending to celebrate that evening of course, but of course that case had been closed.

Sherlock grabbed the man's coat and ushered him towards the door. "If something of interest happens in the near future, you may return. But until then, consult the police with matters such as this, as that's what they're for."

"But sir, you must listen! At least take my address in case you find something!" he said hurriedly, taking my hand and shoving in it a note with his information.

"Good day, Dr. Aspell!" said Sherlock, closing the door.

 

* * *

 

Two days past before he even mentioned the case. No other clients came to our door, and Sherlock had nothing to stimulate his mind aside from his cocaine and his violin. He never attempted to combine the two activities, which I'm certain was for the better.

I was flipping through the newspaper and enjoying my morning coffee in my armchair, and occasionally glancing outside at the hurried and noisy streets of London. Sherlock was pacing, as he always did when he had no puzzle to solve.

"What garbage are you reading now?" he said, grabbing the paper from my hand.

"SUICIDE OF GREGORY HERDING, LIFE PARTNER OF THE LATE ELIZABETH HERDING"

The article made note of her most loved works, and speculated that he commits suicide because of all of the press bothering him combined with the heartbreak of losing a loved one. Sherlock perked one of his eyebrows, and asked me, "Why are you reading this?"

"Oh, I loved Elizabeth's works. She was a fantastic playwright and novelist. One of my inspirations, truly. But I'm sure you wouldn't–"

"No, no," he whispered, his eyes skimming the page at a frantic rate. He glanced up at me after just a few moments, and exclaimed, "I'm glad you brought this to my attention, Watson. I've said this before, you are an excellent conductor of light. It's a good thing I keep an archive of newspapers in times like these," he said excitedly, before running off to his chamber. He gestured that I follow him.

He flicked through the many papers very quickly, his fingers dancing over each sheet as he scanned for dates. "See here: Late November last year, William Baldwin, famed novelist and playwright. Best known for 'A Love Forgotten' and his set of poems entitled 'London by Candlelight'. Died at age twenty-seven of unknown illness. And here, Mary Anne Addison, poet, died at age twenty-three in early February. James Wainwright, author of over twenty books, died at age twenty eight in early June. And your Elizabeth Herding, prolific author and best-seller, died age thirty-two in late August. All from some mysterious illness, all at a fairly young age. What intrigues me is that they're all spaced at somewhat of an interval, approximately three or four months, with the last being three months ago. I think it's time we made a visit to Dr. Charles Aspell. We may have a serial killer on our hands!"

 

(to be continued)


End file.
